


Popped Collar, Rolled Sleeves, Not As Hot As Me

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Ineffable Fluffies [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Based on a facebook post, Disabled Character, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Nonbinary Character, Queen's Greatest Hits, and she's doing such a good job!!!!!!!!!, everyone's queer in some way and you can't stop me, the Bentley is Crowley's service dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Crowley moves to the South Downs for medical reasons. For the first year, he keeps himself to himself; but then an unlikely friendship, a holy experience of a cruller, and Bentley becoming addicted to a certain pupcake, all conspire to make him leave his safe studio and gardens and meet new people. Including the only man who can bake his way into Crowley's good books.Damn it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based on a facebook post. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so sorry.

Crowley cupped his dog’s chin in his hands, and said very seriously, “Benny, I am in love with him. What do I do?”

Bentley gazed up at him with her big brown eyes and thwapped her tail on the floor a few times.

“I don’t know how to flirt. Do I give him presents?” Crowley moved one hand to scratch Bentley’s ear. “Do I take him to dinner?”

Bentley’s ears perked and her tail wagged harder, the obvious signals that she had heard her favorite word. Crowley laughed and stood.

“You’re right, Benny. We should eat before we really think about it.”

~

Anthony J. Crowley, sculptor, had not moved to the South Downs for any reason other than health.

You wouldn’t think he’d moved for that reason. If he wasn’t making the rounds of his truly impressive gardens, frowning judgmentally at the inevitable trouble and ruthlessly killing pests, he was in his studio, sculpting and carving while playing Queen’s Greatest Hits on repeat (“Bentley likes it.”). He kept himself to himself, and after the neighbors got used to his near obsession with tearing up his backyard to make way for a little Eden of a garden, they all decided at the Neighborhood Watch meeting that he was a nice man who obviously just wanted space to garden and let his art flourish.

That was part of it, yes. He liked space. He liked not sharing walls, and having the room to make and keep bigger sculptures. But really, he’d only moved because his doctor had been very, very fierce about him moving to a calmer area. London was busy and loud and there was always bright light somewhere. The South Downs were quieter. The nearest clinic was farther away, but hopefully he wouldn’t need to go as often.

Crowley was disgusted when he realized his doctor was right, and his seizures had calmed after he moved. Since the worst trigger was light, he had chosen a small cottage on a big plot (for planting tall bushes and trees) with small windows (easily covered) and right in the middle of the row (less chance of headlights coming in sharply from around corners).

Nice not to have to go lie down in a designated area when the aura hit though. He could simply sit wherever he was, outside or in, and lean on Bentley until it passed.

Dear Bentley, who had taken to their new home almost immediately. She was a mutt—Crowley refused anything less than the muddiest of backgrounds—and she was about knee-height on him, with indeterminate build but very pointy ears and a tail so solid it hurt when it hit Crowley’s bad knee. She thoroughly enjoyed the garden, and the walks around the village that they took every morning. Her training never broke, though; she might prick her ears at birds and other dogs, but she never left her person.

It was at end of such a walk, when Crowley had just set his hand on his garden gate, that his neighbor on the right spoke to him.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully. Her bright orange hair and sparkly pink dressing gown made Crowley want to cringe and dress her in something sensible, like mauve or red. “You’re Anthony, yes?”

“I prefer Crowley,” Crowley replied, a little stiffly. He didn’t like conversing. Bentley, sensing that they were trapped, sighed and sat beside him. “You’re… Ms. Tracy?”

“Mrs. actually,” she replied with a smile. “I go by Madam Tracy though.”

Crowley nodded. He remembered, now; he had seen a little shop sandwiched between two larger buildings with the sign, “Madam Tracy, Spiritual Medium”. He wasn’t exactly sure how to continue the conversation when a slumpy, sleepy man appeared in Madam Tracy’s doorway with a mug in his hand. “Breakfuss is ready, Jezebel,” he grumbled in a thick Scottish accent.

“Thank you, dear,” Madam Tracy replied, with what Crowley considered indecent affection for someone who had just been insulted. “Shadwell, have you met Mr. Crowley?”

“Hmph.” Shadwell drank from his mug, eyeing Crowley suspiciously. “Artist bloke. Yer dog, she got a breed?”

“No,” Crowley replied, feeling even more irritated at all this chatter early in the morning. “Complete mutt.”

“Tha’s what I thought. I’ll put the coffee on.” And Shadwell shuffled back into the house.

Madam Tracy shook her head with a sigh, still smiling a little. “Sorry about him. He’s not at his best in morning.”

Crowley shrugged. “Seems a right bastard,” he said before he could stop himself.

Madam Tracy laughed, which was not what he was expecting. “Oh, that he is, but he’s a sweetheart under the bluster. Your dog, what’s her name?”

“Bentley,” Crowley replied, looking down as he felt the shift in her leash that meant she had looked up. He leaned down a little and ruffled her ears, earning a doggy-grin and an affectionate lick. “She’s my service dog.”

“Oh! She’s adorable,” Madam Tracy cooed, but did not ask to pet her, which pleased Crowley. “I’m sorry to keep you, I’m sure you have things to do.” She hesitated, then added, “If you would like to come to tea some time, you’re welcome to.”

Crowley forced himself to give a tight little jerk of the corner of his mouth, as close to a smile as he could get. “Thank you, I’ll remember that. Goodbye, Madam Tracy. Nice to meet you.” And he hurried through the front garden and into his house, Bentley trotting in blissful ignorance beside him.

~

He came to on the floor of the kitchen, with Bentley whining and sniffing his face. Stiffly, he raised his hand and rested it on her shoulder. She backed up a little, giving him room to breathe and pull himself together. At least she’d warned him soon enough that he’d been able to sit before falling over.

Damn it. What had set him off this time?

Fuck. The stove.

He tried to stand, then decided that laying down again for a few more minutes was a much better idea. So he eased back on the tiles and sighed, closing his eyes. From the faint splutter and hiss, he guessed that the burner had actually turned on, and he was not endangering his dog, but he still felt a mild panic. It wasn’t getting better. The dizziness had faded, and he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit, so he carefully—_very_ carefully—pushed himself into a sitting position. Craning his neck, he could just see a faint flicker of light on the bottom of the kettle. Alright, burner was on and aflame. No gas poisoning imminent. The panic eased. His left arm was still a little shaky, but he could work around that.

Still, he sat on the floor for several more minutes, just until the kettle began to hiss. Then he forced himself upright and turned off the burner. He didn’t trust himself not to spill on himself if he poured with his left hand, so he moved his mug and used his right. By the time the tea had steeped, he was completely fine again.

“I really need to get better with my medicine,” he told Bentley wearily. She whined, wagging her tail, and nudged his leg with her nose. He took his mug and pill bottle to the table and sat, moving carefully. Once he was down, he didn’t feel so unsteady; he leaned down and patted Bentley. “How long was that, Benny darling?”

She tapped her paw three times.

“Three minutes. Better than last time.” Crowley sipped his tea slowly. Better than last time, but worse than the time before. At least she hadn’t needed to get outside help. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about having his neighbors learn after a year that he had seizures.

He was feeling much better by the time he’d finished his tea. He fed Bentley the second half of her breakfast, and had some eggs for himself, before going straight to his studio.

Really, the studio was just the sitting room. But he didn’t have much furniture, so he’d laid down tarp and turned the biggest room in his little home (with the best light, windows facing south) into a place to store his in-progress pieces. He sat on the stool in front of his latest carving—a marble statuette commission of a faun, god knows why—and felt suddenly at peace. Here. He was meant to be here, at this table, with these tools in his hands.

Bentley laid down out of the way of flying stone chips and watched him, thumping her tail, as he put on his safety glasses and got to work chiseling out this stubborn little faun bastard.

~

Three weeks later, Crowley had resigned himself.

Madam Tracy was not a forceful and annoying presence. Rather, she saw that he kept himself cloistered and rarely spoke to others, and decided he needed to at least learn how to say hello. So every day, when Bentley danced out the door and struck a pose as she pissed on the grass, Crowley was faced with Madam Tracy’s cheerful greeting. He was glad she didn’t try to strike up conversation when he was grumpy or tired from staying up too late; instead she said hello, collected her mail, and went back inside. Sometimes, when he was feeling more relaxed, she offered some comment about the weather, or about how his gardenias were coming along well, or even boldly asking where he was headed that morning. She never pushed, which was a blessing. Crowley would reply with a few polite sentences, and they would part ways.

It was… nice.

And after three weeks, he found that he was not dreading her. In fact, exactly three weeks and four days after their first conversation, he said hello first.

“Good morning,” Crowley said.

Madam Tracy grinned triumphantly. “Good morning,” she replied. “I noticed you were planting something in the back yesterday afternoon; what is it?”

“Oh, just some potatoes.” A few weeks ago, he would be suspicious of her comment; now, he was fairly sure it was just because he was usually in the garden when she took her tea outside. “The soil isn’t right here, but I got raised beds. Thinking about chickens.” He didn’t really know why he said these things. He wasn’t _chatty_.

“Chickens are lovely for herb gardens,” Madam Tracy offered. “They’re wonderful pest control. You can use the eggs shells as fertilizer, too.”

Crowley blinked. He hadn’t thought of that, but it made perfect sense. Calcium, in a controlled amount… yes, that was perfect. He managed an actual smile. “Hadn’t thought of that. Thank you. I’ll have to read up on chicken-keeping.”

“Shadwell might have some advice. He grew up on a farm, and his mother kept chickens in the garden. Come to tea today and we’ll talk!”

Crowley opened his mouth to refuse out of reflex—but then he paused, and gave it a minute. Finally, he answered, “I would like that, actually.”

Madam Tracy practically beamed at him.

They chatted a little more, which was an odd experience, and then Madam Tracy went inside and Crowley and Bentley went on their walk. Bentley danced on her leash all the way to the gate, then reined herself in with effort and trotted obediently at his side.

Crowley wondered if he was finally feeling… comfortable, here.

Their walk, which was usually taken in meditative silence, was interrupted by a small terrier appearing around the corner and staring at Bentley. Then it began to yap.

Crowley stopped immediately, and shortened Bentley’s leash. He knew she wouldn’t attack first, but if this small bastard reached them before its owner—

“Dog!” A young boy with brown hair and a blue jacket dashed around the corner and grabbed the terrier, picking it up and cradling it in his arms. It stopped yapping, but it didn’t stop craning towards Bentley, who planted her bum beside her person and sat rock still. “How do you keep doing that?! Sorry, sir, his collar slipped.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley answered, eyeing the terrier mistrustfully. “You might want to teach him to wear a harness.”

“We’re trying. He’s my first dog,” the boy said, petting his dog. He was frowning at Crowley, puzzled. Crowley frowned back, annoyed. “Aren’t you—” the boy began, but was interrupted.

“Adam, stop running off like that!” puffed a balding man with a round, worried face and a very fatherly jumper, as he came into view. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Sorry, dad, Dog got out of his collar.” The boy, Adam, crouched to put the terrier on the ground, holding him back as he reattached a collar to the quivering canine. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” Crowley replied, and waited for Adam, Dog, and Dad to depart before continuing his walk. Why had the boy stared at him? What had he been about to ask? Crowley sighed in frustration. People were annoying.

He looked down at Bentley, who trotted beside him with her head and tail high, alert and interested. She would never ask him annoying questions, or force him to converse. Dogs were so much better than people.

After their walk, Crowley spent the morning in the garden, checking his beds. He had sculpted his own pots for some of his bushes, due to the nature of the native soil, and bought raised beds, but there were some native and otherwise chalk-loving plants that he liked that he had filled out the rest of the backyard with. The whole area had been paved over, so he’d had to tear that up and let the land breathe before he could start planting. And now the grass was lush and springy in the areas he hadn’t marked out for his plants, besides the few stones he’d put down for walking, and his potted bushes were flourishing, and his trees were still a little scraggly but he had hope for them. He did not make his own fertilizer, but he did buy it from several different farmers who also distrusted the bagged stuff, and it seemed to be working, as did the clover interspersed in the areas he was planning on growing other, less welcomed plants.

He looked around at his tiny forest of flowers, vegetable tables, and greenery, and felt a small measure of happiness. Not much to do today except water the plants. Rain was expected the next day, so he would be light with the hose, but they definitely needed a bit of a drink.

When the morning rounds of both back and front gardens were finished, he washed up, swept his studio floor as best he could, and played with Bentley. She especially loved tug-o-war with a rope toy, and also the snack-ball, which was a plastic ball with broken-up treats in it that she had to roll around and chase to get the treats out of. Crowley smiled as he watched her play, bouncing on her front paws, tail wagging furiously.

Then it was noon. He changed out of his work-clothes into something more relaxed, and led Bentley over to Madam Tracy’s.

She opened the door quite soon after his knock, and smiled at him. “Hello, Crowley! I’m glad you could make it! Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, embarrassed, and looked down at Bentley. “Benny, wipe paws.”

Bentley obediently scraped her paws against the welcome mat, before following Crowley into the house.

It was a very… average house. Madam Tracy, when not in her hideous dressing gown, seemed to prefer light pinks and complicated patterns; her home was the same in decoration. The shades over the lights were tinted a delicate pink, and the vase holding some flowers in the hall was quite baroque. There were muddy Wellies and a heavy green coat with military medals on one side, and a cape with a dizzying pattern in bright colors hanging on the other, above three pairs of neat, sensible shoes. Bentley sniffed the shoes and Wellies with interest, and sneezed, shaking her head.

“Come in, Shadwell’s working on the plumbing in the bathroom, but tea’s all set in the sitting room,” Madam Tracy said warmly, and herded Crowley and Bentley into a soft little room with comfortable furnishings and a frankly wonderful spread on the tea table. Sandwiches in triangles, and not light little cucumber sandwiches, but ham and cheese and onion; some small cakes that looked homemade, and he could smell from the doorway; and crullers sitting innocently beside the teapot.

Crullers. Crowley’s ultimate weakness. How absolutely unfair, that the sandwiches were required first.

“Can Bentley eat carrots?” Madam Tracy asked, bringing Crowley back to the room. “I have some I just cleaned and peeled.”

Bentley wagged her tail hard, and Crowley smiled. “She loves carrots. Thank you.”

Before he knew it, they were sitting across from each other, eating sandwiches and talking gardens. Madam Tracy had left her yards mostly grass and flowers for her first three years in the South Downs, but she’d gotten the gardening bug just a few months ago (Crowley suspected his own plants) and was doing her best. Crowley gave her what he had learned, and they both spent a merry quarter of an hour complaining about the lack of truly fresh produce at the grocer’s.

“All I want is some apples for pie,” Madam Tracy grumped. “Is that too much to ask?”

“And the pears! Ugh! It’s so obvious that they’re shipped from overseas. I know there are orchards here in England; why can’t I ever find some of them in the shops?” Crowley added, scowling.

“Don’t get me started on imported fruit!”

And they promptly got started on imported fruit.

The sandwiches and cakes were long gone, they had both had three cups of tea, and Bentley was asleep on Crowley’s feet, when Madam Tracy offered a cruller. Crowley could not, and did not try to, resist the siren call.

It was _perfect_.

Madam Tracy laughed at the bliss on Crowley’s face. “That was my first reaction too,” she giggled. “They’re from Angelic Delights, a little cafe down the road from the post office. The owner, he’s the nicest man I’ve ever met.”

“Where is it again?” Crowley asked, as soon as he had swallowed and the haze of delight had cleared from his eyes. He needed more. He needed to eat so many he got sick. They were so goddamn good.

“Down the main street, just across from Heaven’s Door.” Madam Tracy made a face. “Do _not_ go to Heaven’s Door. They have lovely clothes, but the owner is a horrible man. He owns at least half the homes and shops in the village.”

Crowley, who had often looked in the windows of said clothing shop and frowned at how boring and ugly it all was (seriously, where was the _color_?), nodded. He could believe whoever owned that place was horrible. “The cafe owner—you said it’s called Angelic Delights? Does he do the baking?”

“Oh, yes! French pastries are his specialty, especially crepes, but he does good solid English fare as well.” Madam Tracy eyed Crowley as he took another bite of bliss in pastry form, and began to smile slowly. “Would you like to be introduced? I’ve become something of a regular there.”

“I… would be much obliged, Madam Tracey.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be so much longer than I expected.... I need to properly torment a certain character (and no it's not our bbies Crowley or Aziraphale)

Madam Tracy was the most colorful person on the street, in her brightly-colored raincoat and with her polka-dot umbrella, her bright green rain boot-clad feet scampering over puddles. Crowley, in his usual black, with a sturdy black umbrella and a pair of shades with lighter lenses so he could still see in the downpour, had trouble keeping up.

“Not far now!” Madam Tracy caroled, for the fourth time, as she paused to let Crowley and Bentley catch up. “Just down this street!”

Crowley grunted. Madam Tracy was unperturbed.

But this time it was true. Most of the shops had lights on, but only one was so packed with people that the light from the windows shifted on the pavement with the movement of the people inside. Crowley dreaded it immediately, and wondered if this were a terrible idea. Crowds meant noise, noise meant headaches, headaches meant—

Bentley whined, and that decided him. She’d been out in the wet too long. So Crowley followed Madam Tracy into the shop.

It was bigger on the inside than it had seemed. The crowding was mostly confined to two seating areas near the front; the cafe part of the establishment. The bakery part was bigger, and though there were people wandering about, it wasn’t nearly as packed as Crowley had feared.

Madam Tracy was greeting some people at a nearby table. Crowley crouched to wipe Bentley’s face with a handkerchief (poor baby always got eye boogers when it rained), and then stood and wandered away to inspect shelves covered in neatly-wrapped bread. There was quite a selection, and he was very impressed. There was even a case of dog treats, which interested Bentley immensely.

“Hey, no dogs allowed,” said an irritated voice. Crowley looked up, and saw a very beautiful young woman scowling at him. She wore a bright blue apron over her dark blue dress, which honestly looked more like it belonged in the Victorian age, and her hair was tied up on top and let fall in the back. It was an interesting look.

“She’s my service dog,” Crowley told the woman, who he assumed was an employee.

“Hmph.” The young woman eyed Bentley with a strangely piercing gaze, then looked up at Crowley again. Her eyes narrowed, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see right into his soul. Then she blinked and sighed heavily. “Fine. Don’t let her near the diners.”

Crowley nodded, startled, but moved on to the next case, as the young woman walked away to deal with something else. There—the crullers, the only reason he had left the house on this dreary day. His mouth started watering immediately. But he did not drool like a dog, or Bentley when he was late with dinner. He simply went up to the counter and said, “Excuse me,” to the white-haired person who was putting something away under the counter. Then the person straightened and Crowley made a little _ngk_ sound in the back of his throat.

His fellow students at university had jeered at him for being a romantic, which had led to him constructing his stiff, asshole-ish front. But he still had moments where he forgot himself. Like now.

The person was probably late forties, like Crowley, and was perhaps the third most adorable man he had ever seen, though he couldn’t remember who the first two might have been. His hair was slightly curly and stuck up in every direction, there was a smudge of flour on his upturned nose, his blue eyes were guileless and clear, and his smile was absolutely devastating. Crowley wondered why he wasn’t dead on the floor from the sheer brightness of that smile.

“How can I help you?” the person said, and Crowley snapped back to the present. Thank god for sunglasses. No one needed to know how wide his eyes were.

“Ah, I just, was wondering—crullers,” he said, floundering a little, but finally latching on to his purpose for approaching. “I didn’t see a price for the crullers.”

“Oh! Oh, dear, I forgot to fix that,” the person murmured with a worried frown, then smiled again. “£5 for five. I’m having a special on them for the week.”

Crowley nodded stiffly and reached for his wallet. He had to use a tiny slim one to fit in his pocket—he kept forgetting to just get a bag, mostly on purpose, because it would ruin his vibe—but it could hold his card and a few quid, along with his warning card and ID.

“Newt!” the most adorable person Crowley had ever seen called, and a gangly, bespectacled young man looked up from placing pastries in a bag like an alarmed deer. “When you’re done, can you help this young man?”

Crowley’s face turned red.

“Yessir, Mr. Fell,” Newt replied, and fumbled the customer’s card. Mr. Fell turned back to Crowley and said to him, “Newt will bag the crullers for you.”

“Thank you,” Crowley replied, and turned away, almost tripping over Bentley, who skipped neatly out of his way. She was looking up at him with her ears alert. He wondered why—and then he realized a headache was coming on.

Bentley yipped.

“You are absolutely right, Benny,” Crowley said quietly, and began to lower himself to the floor. He was halfway to a crouch when the seizure hit.

~

Aziraphale saw the man go down, and the twitching in his limbs was far too familiar.

The dog started barking, and ran to Madam Tracy, who was closest to the man, having begun to approach him. She hurried over and knelt, her hands shaking. Aziraphale levered himself up on to the counter and slid off on the other side, untying his apron as he came over. The dog was whining now, tugging on Madam Tracy’s sleeve as she tried to grip the man’s wrist; Aziraphale folded his apron quickly, and handed it to Madam Tracy. “Put that under his head,” he ordered, and knelt. The man’s wallet had fallen out of his pocket; Aziraphale checked quickly, and found a card with a brief explanation, obviously home-printed. “Epilepsy, Madam Tracy. Give him a minute.”

It actually took a minute and a half for the seizure to stop, leaving the man gasping for breath. His glasses hadn’t slipped, so Aziraphale still couldn’t see his eyes, but he was sure they were open. “Sir? Can you hear me?” Aziraphale asked.

The man swallowed hard and whispered, “Yeah. Benny. Benny.”

The dog scrabbled over Aziraphale’s knee to lay close to its master and let him clench his fingers in its still-wet fur. Other people were drifting over, looking concerned; Anathema swept in, cool and dominating, shooing them all away with, “It’s fine. He just needs a minute. Give him some space.” Aziraphale sent her a grateful smile; she winked and continued talking calmly, getting everyone out of the way.

“Mr. Crowley, are you alright?” Madam Tracy asked worriedly. Aziraphale slid his fingers under the man’s wrist to feel his pulse. A little fast, but not dangerous, Aziraphale hoped. He seemed to be coming around, his hand loosening on his dog’s fur. The dog’s tail began to twitch, just at the tip. Aziraphale took that as a good sign.

“Fine,” Mr. Crowley replied, a little louder, but he seemed disinclined to move. “How… how long?”

“Just over a minute,” Aziraphale replied promptly. The man nodded carefully.

“Good,” he muttered, then winced and turn his face into the apron under his head. “Bright.”

“The lights? Yes, they are a bit much.” Aziraphale stood and went back to the counter to grab his tea-towel, returning quickly. “Here. Would you like to cover your eyes? I think I have some pain killers in the kit.”

“Yes, and no thanks.” Mr. Crowley let go of his dog and reached clumsily; Aziraphale handed him the tea-towel and he immediately covered his eyes, glasses and all. “Pain killers… don’t help right after.”

“Understandable.” Aziraphale looked up at Madam Tracy, who looked bewildered. “You came with him, Madam?”

“Yes,” she replied, then shook herself and pulled out her mobile, an old model with a brightly-painted back. “Mr. Crowley, if I call Shadwell to pick us up and drive you home, will you be angry?”

Mr. Crowley smiled wryly. “You’re going to do it anyway. I won’t be. Benny?”

The dog inched closer, its whole tail wagging now, as it washed his chin and whined. He pet its head a few times and it calmed. Aziraphale, sure that everything was handled, stood and returned to the counter again to pick up several pieces of wax paper and a cardboard box. He stepped around dog, man, and woman still on the ground, and picked the six best crullers out of the tray, wrapping them in paper and setting them in the box. When he was done, he went back to them; Mr. Crowley was sitting up, his left arm kind of limp at his side while his right curled protectively around Benny the dog. That reminded Aziraphale… He bent and looked through the pupcakes to find a carrot one. He picked it up and knelt next to Madam Tracy.

“Here,” he said, holding out the box first. “Six crullers. No payment necessary. Can I give your dog some cake?”

“Bentley’s on duty,” Mr. Crowley replied, reaching out for the box with his right hand. “But yeah, I’ll buy a cake for her.”

“No,” Aziraphale answered firmly, “She gets a cake for being a good girl, free of charge. Can you stand?”

“Um. Yeah.”

It took some help from Aziraphale, but finally Mr. Crowley was standing and holding the box and the pupcake. He looked a little dazed still, but hopefully that was just Aziraphale’s insistence he not pay, on his first visit. People were still looking. Aziraphale found it hard not to glare at his customers.

The rumble of an old motor heralded Shadwell’s arrival. The rain had seemed to let up into sprinkling for a moment; Aziraphale watched Madam Tracy, Mr. Crowley, and Bentley the dog leave the shop to climb into Shadwell’s dingy, ancient Land Rover. Then he went and picked his apron up and went back to work, thoughtfully.

~

Crowley was so embarrassed that he barely spoke as Madam Tracy fussed at him and Shadwell grumbled, which also seemed to be a form of fussing. Bentley crept closer and closer, eyes fixed on the doggy cupcake, until Crowley gave in and gave her a piece. She gobbled it up, and her tail began wagging so hard her bum wiggled.

It wasn’t long until they were at their homes. Shadwell insisted on dropping Crowley off at his front gate, and Madam Tracy asked in all seriousness if he needed her to come in with him.

He shook his head, too humiliated by their concern to speak, and got out of the car. Bentley watched him intently as they walked up the path to the front door—or maybe that was just the cupcake. Once they were inside, Crowley stuffed his umbrella in the stand he’d made a few years ago, kicked off his shoes, and slumped into the kitchen. Thankfully the windows were shuttered and the curtains closed, as thunder rumbled. Lightning would come soon. He could feel it in the air.

He sat on the floor, took his medicine with water, and gave Bentley the cupcake in pieces, whispering, “Good dog. Good dog. Good, good, good puppy.”

Bentley gobbled the cake, then laid down with her head in his lap and sighed heavily. Crowley leaned back on the cupboards and closed his eyes, thoroughly depressed.

At least he had crullers to get him through the week.

~

Crowley didn’t work on his own on all his sculpting projects.

There was a metal-working studio and foundry not far from London where he shaped casts for bronze statues. The owner of the foundry was extremely hands-off, and left most of the managing work to two of their employees, who had adopted the names of Hastur and Ligur.

Hastur hated Crowley with a deep passion, and the feeling was mutual. Ligur was more laid-back, quieter, but he also resented Crowley. Mostly because they had had the same art courses in university, and while Crowley had gone on to be a well-known artist, Ligur had taken the job offered by Hastur because the British art world was crueler to black people and the blind than white people with no visible disabilities. Being blind didn’t affect Ligur’s art, but it had certainly perturbed critics.

Hastur was just a dick. Scary enough to keep workers in line, but mostly just a dick.

But their boss had made a contract with Crowley; he provided the sculpture and helped make the mold, the workers at the foundry made the finished product, and the commission for the artwork was split. Crowley’s share was usually barely enough to cover the cost of his own materials and time, but he’d stopped caring five years ago. So while Hastur and Ligur muttered angrily and made snide remarks, they kept away from Crowley as much as possible. It was a tense but profitable arrangement.

A new hire came to pick up Crowley and his newest piece two days after Crowley’s seizure in the bakery. The boy was far too cheerful, as he carried the piece to the van and chattered constantly, using slang Crowley didn’t recognize and making Vine and TikTok references that he _wished_ he didn’t recognize. His hair was bad, too, but he ignored Crowley’s frown.

At least he didn’t try to pet Bentley.

Crowley made monosyllabic answers to the kid’s talk, which was apparently all he needed. When they were in the van and on their way, Crowley missing Bentley already (the foundry was too dangerous for her), the boy suddenly switched topics.

“Oh, hey, are you going to do any shows anywhere?” he asked cheerfully, shooting Crowley a smile that Crowley was suspicious of immediately.

“No,” he answered bluntly.

“Because there’s going to be an open competition at Tate Modern,” the kid continued, undeterred, “And the winner gets a gallery feature and a prize of £1,000! I just thought you’d like to know.”

Crowley fought the inevitable surge of delight. Monetary prizes, _and_ a gallery feature? Maybe he could get more customers. Maybe he could branch out of the boring classical marble he was most known for. Maybe—

He pulled himself back sharply, and said cautiously, “Thank you for telling me.”

The kid beamed.

The foundry was just as dirty as Crowley remembered. Not so filthy that it interfered with the work, but definitely greasier and dustier than necessary. Crowley, who kept his studio as clean as possible and washed his hands frequently, always felt uncomfortable here.

But three workers greeted him cordially, and soon the process had begun. Crowley always insisted on being part of the molding process, to make sure details weren’t lost, but there came a point where they needed to let the rubber dry, and so he was banished from the foundry for 24 hours. Grumpy, and knowing it was necessary, he went and found a relatively quiet restaurant to have lunch in. He would stay in this town three days, just until the actual casting began, and then he would go home to wait for the news that the sculpture was finished. It would be delivered to his door, and then he would hold it until the commissioner sent for it.

Fuck he missed Bentley. He didn’t know if this headache was just a normal one or the precursor to a migraine.

Crowley ate and drank slowly, but finally the noise and the lights were too much, and he asked for a to-go box. The server was very nice and brought him one quickly; he wondered bitterly if she thought he was pathetic.

But he thanked her and paid and went out to walk to his hotel. There was no taxi service in this town, and the bus would be annoying, so he walked. At least it wasn’t raining.

He had just finished checking in and was in the lift (he hadn’t taken the stairs since his second fall) when his mobile rang. Frowning, he took it out and answered it.

“Hello, Anthony Crowley speaking.”

“Hello!” said a young voice on the other end. “Um, I have your dog. I tried ringing your bell, but is it not working?”

Crowley closed his eyes tightly as his gut clenched. “I’m out of town for a few days. The dog-sitter was supposed to arrive this morning.” Fucking Beez, they had promised to send someone and obviously hadn’t.

“Oh. I can take care of her!” the young voice said eagerly. “She and my dog are playing right now. My name’s Adam Young, we’re on holiday, but we’ll still be here for a few weeks.”

“Did you ask your parents?” Crowley asked, alarmed. If the parents said no and sent Bentley to the pound…

“No, but I will right now. HEY MUM! I called the owner! He said he’ll be back in a few days. Can we take care of her?”

“I don’t know, Adam,” a muffled woman’s voice replied. The lift dinged quietly; Crowley exited and walked quickly to his room. The woman on the phone continued, “Did he say when exactly he’ll be back?”

“No. When will you be back, Mr. Crowley?”

“Three days,” Crowley replied, bracing the mobile between his ear and his shoulder as he fumbled the lock open. “If you can’t hold her, will you please take her to Madam Tracy?”

“The lady who talks to ghosts?” Adam sounded uncertain now. “I guess...”

“No, no, no,” the woman, presumably Adam’s mum, said firmly. “I wouldn’t trust her with a cat. We’ll take care of your dog, Mr. Crowley.”

“Thank you,” Crowley answered, shutting his door and closing his eyes. He wanted to argue with Adam’s mum about Madam Tracy, but he was tired and his head hurt. “I will be back soon. Her name’s Bentley, by the way. The dog.”

“Yeah, we read the tag,” Adam replied. “Why would you name your dog after a _car_?”

“Bentleys are great cars,” Crowley retorted defensively. “Thank you for picking her up.”

“You’re welcome. G’bye, Mr. Crowley!”

“Mm-hm.” He hung up. He didn’t care if they thought he was rude.

Then he turned and nearly had a heart attack. “FUCKING HELL!”

“Oh shut up,” Beez replied acidly. How they had gotten into Crowley’s hotel room, he had no idea. But there they were, sitting in the single chair, looking annoyed. “You’ll make them think there’s a break-in.”

“There _is_ a break-in,” Crowley snapped, stomping forward to drop his boxed lunch on the TV stand. “What else do you call you getting into my room without permission?”

“No one will care.” Beez slouched in the chair, obviously preparing to refuse to leave. “I hear you met the owner of Angelic Delights.”

Crowley blinked. Beez’s face was calculating and suspicious. “The baker? I don’t know if I met _him_...”

“White hair, blue eyes, cute?”

Crowley almost blushed. “Oh. Him. Yes.”

“Mm-hm.” Beez stood and stalked over. Despite being quite a bit shorter than Crowley, they still radiated a strength of character that made most people uneasy and cowed. Crowley, having seen them singing while drunk, crying, and snort-laughing, was not intimidated. But he had to admit, there was something frightening in their pale eyes.

“You stay away from him,” Beez hissed, the S sound buzzing slightly. “He doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken, and especially not by you.”

“That was twenty years ago!” Crowley snapped. “And why do you care, anyway?”

“Personal business. Remember what I said, Crowley. Stay away from him.” And Beez stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

Crowley stared after them, bewildered and angry. And he decided that he didn’t care that Mr. Fell had seen him at his most vulnerable; he was going to get closer to him, just to piss off his former boss.

(And also because Mr. Fell must be a complete bastard to have won Beez to his side. And Crowley had always been a sucker for bad boys.)

~

The three days passed normally, with Crowley calling the Youngs every afternoon for a sit-rep on Bentley. Adam seemed to understand his need to make sure she was safe, but Mrs. and Mr. Young were bewildered, though they were quite good sports about it.

Finally Crowley was banished from the foundry for the required days it took to finish the metal bits, and the kid who had driven him before volunteered to take him back. Crowley sat through half the drive silently, as the kid talked on and on and on—but finally, he had to say, “Can you please stop talking? I’ve had a headache for four days and noise makes it worse.”

The kid blinked, startled, then said, “Sorry, Mr. Crowley,” and obliged.

Crowley kept his eyes closed the rest of the way home.

He had the kid drop him off at his gate, waited until the van trundled away, then immediately took out his phone and dialed the Youngs.

“Hello, Mr. Crowley!” Adam answered.

“Hey, I’m finally back,” Crowley told him. “Can you bring Bentley to Angelic Delights? I need to buy her a cupcake.”

“Oh yeah, sure!”

After some more talk (he still hated chitchat with anyone besides Madam Tracy, but he was getting better at it) Crowley dumped his suitcase just inside his door and walked quickly to the bakery. He passed Heaven’s Door on the way, and as always, he glanced at the displayed suits with disdain. Still so colorless and boring. Ugh.

He almost ran into a man who was leaving the store, but stepped back and waited politely for the man to move.

He didn’t. He looked Crowley up and down, and his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Wanna-be goth,” he announced, in the most annoying American accent Crowley had ever heard, and then “brushed” past, making Crowley stumble.

Oh. Oh, he was going to _pay_ for that comment.

But first—Bentley. Crowley looked both ways, crossed the street, and hurried to the doorstep of Angelic Delights, looking up and down the pavement hopefully.

And there, just turning the corner, was Adam Young. The terrier, Dog, ran back and forth, tugging the leash, yipping in excitement; Bentley walked beside Adam, looking bewildered. Crowley started approaching, whistling sharply, and Bentley’s ears immediately rose, her head snapping around. Two barks, and she tore from Adam to run to her person, who knelt to hug and pet and scratch her, murmuring affectionately as she slobbered on his face. She danced and jumped when he tried to push her away, and then she abruptly stopped, and snuffled at him, her ears lowering slightly.

“I’m okay, Benny-baby,” Crowley murmured, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I’m okay. Come on, do you want another cupcake?”

Bentley’s tail started wagging again, mostly because he had not used the dreaded word ‘No’. So Crowley straightened, and Bentley immediately stood at attention beside and a little in front, her front paws tippy-tapping and her tail thwapping against Crowley’s knee.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Crowley said to Adam, and because he needed to show appreciation properly (and _not_ because he liked kids and Adam’s inquisitive face reminded him of a little boy several years ago), he offered, “Do you want something from here? I need more cakes for Bentley anyway.”

Adam immediately lit up. “Yes, please!”

They entered the shop, and Crowley was struck by the fact that the lights were dimmer, mellower. It was restful compared to how it used to be. Some tables were occupied, but they were mostly people lingering over their goodies and tea, talking softly. This was a comfortable place. Crowley went straight to the doggy cupcakes, and Adam, after taking a moment to tie Dog outside, rushed to the donuts.

Crowley picked out two carrot cupcakes for Bentley, and a box of muffins for himself. He went over to where Adam was clearly torn between two donuts, a jam one and a chocolate one, and asked sensibly, “Why not get both? I can afford it, and anyway, least I can do when you took care of Bentley for me.”

Adam grinned up at him, obviously delighted. “Really? Thanks!” And he grabbed both.

So they trooped up to the counter. Crowley was disappointed that Mr. Cutie Fell was not at the counter, only the lanky kid Newt, but he did not show or say that. Newt smiled at Adam, gave Crowley a frightened glance, and rang up their purchases. Crowley was just handing over his card when Mr. Cutie appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of bread. Crowley couldn’t help reddening a little; he hadn’t forgotten the seizure. But he also hadn’t forgotten how sweet Mr. Cutie looked. Surely he had a bastard side, though. Surely. Why else would Beez want to protect him?

“Um, your card, sir.”

Crowley snapped back to the present moment and took his card back, ignoring how Adam was looking between him and Mr. Cutie thoughtfully and Newt was sweating. Crowley had gotten very good at only moving his eyes, so no one knew his attention had shifted; but Adam was short enough, he could probably see up under Crowley’s glasses. So while Newt was probably unnerved by Crowley’s lack of reaction, Adam knew something.

As soon as Mr. Cutie had finished putting the bread away and returned to the counter, he spotted Crowley, and smiled. “Hello! Wonderful to see you again!”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, caught off guard. “N-nice to see you too.”

Real smooth, Anthony, you dumbass.

Adam snickered, said, “Thanks again, Mr. Crowley!” and skipped out of the shop before Crowley could look to him for salvation. Newt was obviously no help, the transaction had been completed. Bentley was behaving herself; no distraction there. So Crowley was left to slither out of an embarrassing conversation all on his own.

“My name’s Aziraphale,” Mr. Cutie introduced him, with another stunning smile.

“I’m Crowley.”

“Ah! My friend Beezel told me you would be in!” The smile became a laugh as Crowley’s jaw dropped in horror. “Oh, please don’t look so scared! They’re just a grump.”

“They’re an asshole,” Crowley retorted tartly, then flushed. But Aziraphale chuckled instead of getting angry.

“Yes, that too. But really, they’re much better lately.”

“Mr. Fell!” The lovely young woman, in another, plainer old-fashioned gown, leaned out of the kitchen. “Mr. Fell, the muffins are almost ready.”

“I’ll be right there,” Aziraphale called back, and gave Crowley another smile. “Lovely chatting with you. Please come again!”

“Thanks, you too,” Crowley replied automatically, and cringed. But Aziraphale just smiled and went back to the kitchen.

Crowley escaped from the shop, feeling low and not really knowing why. Well, no, after some thought, he did know why. He hadn’t been his usual smooth self. What had happened, in the years since the Dowlings? he thought, as he and Bentley made their way home through the quiet, mildly bustling streets. What had happened to make him miserable around fellow humans?

He knew what. He just didn’t like it.

Work. Work would help him.

In the garden, he took care of his plants, and only Bentley’s rolling in the mud (it must have rained last night) made him smile. There were buds on his flowering plants, shoots in the beds; spring was advancing, after all. After he had finished looking everything over, said a quick hello to Madam Tracy weeding her garden next door, and rinsed Bentley with the hose, he went back inside, and sat down in the kitchen to prop his head in his hands and fight memories.

Bentley whining brought him back. He got a towel and dried her off, murmuring apologies, and then they went to the workroom. He picked up a block of wood that he hadn’t been sure what to make with, stared at it for a moment… and decided he was going to carve Mr. Fell’s face. Because that was what one did when depressed, right? Made art of beautiful people? Of course.

He roughed out a shape first, his heart and mind easing as he chiseled and carved. He brought out his rotary carvers for small, integral places. He did not finish in a day, of course; he was being careful, and thoughtful, and this work always took time. But by the time the best light had gone and his stomach was growling plaintively, he had something that was recognizably a head. He took a break to sweep, wash his hands, and take off his apron, then went and had some dinner, watching a Youtube video on his phone as the microwave hummed.

Dinner was just a frozen meal, but that was fine. It was how he usually ate. He had to save money, after all; it had taken all of his savings to move here and start his garden. He had to start from scratch. Luckily, his customers liked his work enough to keep buying, and kept telling others about him.

But wait. Hadn’t that kid said there would be a competition at a museum, with a monetary reward?

Crowley immediately opened a new tab on his phone and searched for it, and read the details urgently. £1,000 prize, a gallery of his own—damn, it was tempting, so tempting. He rubbed his face, thinking hard. He had some good pieces to submit. He could afford to go in to London for this. He would have to mingle, socialize… he made a face. Socializing with other artists was always hit-or-miss. The younger ones, and the ones who genuinely enjoyed art, they were wonderful to talk to. Sharing techniques and building each other up was fun. It was the pretentious asshats who did it for the money, who were so full of themselves that they couldn’t see anyone else, that Crowley despised.

Still.

He sat for a moment, staring at his empty tray, weighing pros and cons. And then he made a snap decision. Yes. He would enter. He would enter, and hopefully win, and then—well, he’d figure out what next after he won.

“Bentley,” he said gravely, as her ears perked and head tilted, “We are going to be famous.”

~

“Oh, Anthony, darling, that’s wonderful!” Madam Tracy enthused, when he brought it up over a cuppa the next day. Shadwell, munching a biscuit, merely looked pleasantly surprised. Crowley was alright with that.

“You’ll have to wear something nice, though,” Madam Tracy pointed out, and Crowley straightened in alarm.

“No I don’t,” he retorted, hiding his dismay. “I’ll just wear what I have.”

“Absolutely not,” Madam Tracy replied firmly. “I’ll pay half for a good suit for you.”

“Half?” Shadwell snorted. “Nae, he can’t afford even that. We’ll pay full.”

“But I don’t need a new outfit,” Crowley insisted, “And you shouldn’t waste money on me.”

“Bosh,” Madam Tracy replied briskly, waving her free hand. “We’re semi-retired, our expenses are small; we can afford to buy you something nice.”

Crowley looked at them helplessly, but he knew from the determination on their faces that if he continued to argue, there was going to be a Problem. And he didn’t want there to be Problems. He realized, with a nasty jolt, that he didn’t want Problems with his only human friends, because what if they _stopped_ being his friends?

This was why he had preferred not to speak to the neighbors all last year.

“Okay,” he sighed, “But _I_ get to choose.”

Madam Tracy pouted, but her triumph ruined the expression. Shadwell just looked pleased.

~

The trip to The Bee Shop was fraught with Shadwell complaining, until Madam Tracy exasperatedly agreed to also visit Heaven’s Door. Crowley had no idea what The Bee Shop was, but if it was a clothing shop with more variety than Heaven’s Door, he’d happily choose the former over the latter.

They walked, because there was no parking for The Bee Shop, and Madam Tracy insisted Shadwell get some exercise. It was no hardship for Crowley and Bentley; their morning wanderings built up endurance. But about halfway there Shadwell grumbled and accepted the cane Madam Tracy had brought. Crowley noticed his limp, but said nothing, not even when they slowed down. It wasn’t his business.

The Bee Shop was apparently a shop with just a bee painted on the sign. No names, just a bee. Crowley couldn’t help being amused. _That_ was art.

Inside was a bit dim, but it was beautiful. Crowley had always loved thrift and charity shops; he didn’t know why. Bentley sniffed with great interest at most of the clothing they passed, but did not break training. Nothing smelled musty, nothing looked disgusting; there were several suits that looked actually quite nice, despite the tartan and the patterned waistcoats. Crowley wandered the racks curiously, fingertips brushing against hangers until things caught his eye. Madam Tracy and Shadwell were following, but Madam Tracy was being excited by the more brightly colored items, and Shadwell was looking at her, with an odd expression of regret and affection.

Crowley paused, and scooched some hangers out of the way, to admire a deep crimson velvet suit, so dark it looked almost black. There was a bit of a bleach stain on the lapel… but he had a Pride pin he’d bought a while ago that he could wear over it.

How much was it? About £60… He could afford that, couldn’t he? He considered his weekly budget, and winced. That would take up some of the money he’d been saving for a new chisel set. But he had whetstones a-plenty from his days whittling, surely he could wait another week. He’d need proper tools, though, if he were to make a brand new statue for the contest.

He didn’t need a suit that badly. Tools took precedence over clothing, always. He dropped the price tag and straightened.

“That’s the one you want?” Madam Tracy asked from beside him, making him jump. “Oh, sorry, dear. But is that the one you like?”

“I—I don’t need it,” he replied. His fingertips were lingering on the sleeve. He snatched his hand away.

“Try it on,” Madam Tracy urged, gently placing her hand on his arm. A month ago he would have shook her off angrily. “It can’t hurt to try it.”

Crowley struggled for all of a minute, then sighed heavily and asked, “Can you hold Bentley’s leash?”

Safely tucked in the dressing room, Crowley swallowed hard as he carefully pulled on the trousers and jacket. They fit very well. The color and texture reminded him of that dress—

“_Nanny, why do you always wear red?”_

He blinked hard, took a deep breath, and buttoned the jacket. No. No, this was not the dress he wore six years ago. But he missed it.

He looked at himself in the small mirror, and realized he looked most respectable. The waist of the jacket narrowed nicely, but it flared out a little at the hem… a woman’s suit, he realized. This was a woman’s suit. That was why the legs were short and the chest was roomy.

He suddenly felt so much more comfortable, that he actually smiled a little. And then he went out to show Madam Tracy and Shadwell.

Shadwell looked grumpy and was favoring his right leg heavily, but Madam Tracy gasped in delight, which should not have made Crowley grin back, but it did. “Oh, it’s stunning! A bit short, but I’m sure Mx. Buzz would be happy to help trim it a bit.”

“Mx. Buzz?” Crowley repeated, grin faltering as his heart sunk.

“Yes, they’re quite lovely, and—are you alright, dear?”

“Um...”

“What. Are YOU. Doing here.”

Everyone, including Bentley, turned to look at the source of that voice.

Beez stood among the racks of clothes, their usual annoyed expression deepened into anger. Crowley drew himself up, ready to retort—and then he realized that Beez was not looking at him, for a wonder. Beez was glaring at Shadwell.

Shadwell glared back, but when Madam Tracy whipped her head around to look at him, guilt showed plainly on his face. “Er...” he said.

“I told you to never set foot in here again,” Beez hissed, and their S buzzed slightly. Crowley quietly backed up until he was flat against the dressing room door, out of Beez’s way.

“I cannae abide by that if I gotta come with my friend,” Shadwell retorted, but weakly, and he flinched as Beez took a threateningly step forward.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Aziraphale was there, approaching through the racks like a ship out of a harbor.

“Hello,” he said, ever so calmly, smiling at everyone. “Shadwell, a pleasure to see you again. Can I talk with you privately, sir?”

And so smoothly that it seemed magical, Aziraphale took Shadwell’s arm and led him gently but quickly out of the shop, talking to him genially about other things, thoroughly distracting the older man. Beez almost visibly settled, surprised, but with the object of their fury removed, now the rage was faded into crackling annoyance. Madam Tracy was blinking hard. Crowley automatically looked to Bentley, who looked up at him, flattened her ears, and whined.

At that signal, Beez’s attention snapped to Crowley. “No dogs allowed,” they said harshly.

“You know she’s my service dog,” Crowley snapped back, but warily. “And anyway, I want to buy.”

Beez’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” They looked him up and down, noting everything wrong, and then nodded slowly. “The color and shape are good. You need the trousers longer.”

“I know that,” Crowley grumbled, and blinked in surprise. Was that the ghost of a smile on Beez’s face?

“If you’ll excuse me,” Madam Tracy muttered, sounding flustered and torn, before scurrying out of the shop. Just as she left, though, Aziraphale returned, and made his unhurried way back to Beez and Crowley.

“You didn’t have to do that, Az,” Beez said, and their voice was softer.

“Yes, well, we both know what will happen if there are any problems,” Aziraphale replied, and actually patted Beez’s shoulder lightly in a familiar gesture, before turning a smile on Crowley. “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Crowley.”

“Likewise,” Crowley replied, trying discreetly to straighten the jacket. His face reddened as Beez noticed immediately, but Aziraphale’s eyes were on Crowley’s face. “Uh, I didn’t know you knew Shadwell.”

“Oh, I don’t know him well,” Aziraphale replied, “Just enough that I can get away with distracting him. You look quite smart in that. Beez, can I help hem it?” The eagerness on Aziraphale’s face was so cute that Crowley had to look down to hide a smile.

“Absolutely not,” Beez retorted, but their voice was more affectionate than foreboding. “Your sewing is still shite.”

Crowley looked at Beez, puzzled, because when had Beez every been _affectionate_?—and the other immediately scowled at him.

“Fine, I’ll tailor it, but it’ll have to be a contrasting color,” they snapped, sounding much more like the Beez Crowley knew. For some reason, that made him relax.

“Fine with me,” he replied with a shrug. “I’ll only be wearing it once.”

Their eyes narrowed. “Once?”

“Going to a competition. Apparently I have to dress fancy.” Crowley scowled, and was again caught off-guard by the slight amusement on Beez’s face. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’re coming _here_ for a fancy suit, instead of Heaven’s Door?” Beez asked, which didn’t make any sense, but Crowley went with it anyway.

“Yeah. They’re so _boring_. And _ugly_. At least thrift shops are interesting.” He looked down at himself. “Speaking of, I should probably put my own clothes back on.”

“No,” Beez cut in sharply, “If I’m to tailor it, I need to take measurements. Grab your clothes and your stinky dog and come to the back.”

“She is _not_ stinky!” Crowley objected, infuriated, and then startled when Aziraphale, forgotten until now, laughed softly.

“I still don’t see it, Beez,” Aziraphale told the other, then turned to Crowley and smiled before saying, “I hope you’ll come in some time and tell me how the competition goes.”

“Uh—yeah, sure, will do,” Crowley stammered, still a little off-kilter. This whole experience was very strange.

And then Aziraphale _hugged Beez_ before walking out of the shop.

Crowley gaped at Beez. Beez scowled at him, blushing. “Just—grab your shit,” they muttered.

Crowley did so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know the end is messy bear with me it'll get better
> 
> Comments please ;A;

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


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